


Obvious

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, Pedro Pascal - Fandom
Genre: Askbox Fic, F/M, Friends to Lovers, cap'n crunch, i am actual trash, smutty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:21:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: You're best friends. But should you be more?
Relationships: Pedro Pascal/Reader, Pedro Pascal/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 115





	Obvious

You’re just out of the shower when you hear Pedro’s shout downstairs. “Yo! Are you home?”

“Just finishing a shower,” you yell back down. For a split second you think about turning the water back on and asking him to join you. But he’s your best friend, and your relationship has never been like that.

You hear him flop down on the couch, and picture him there, perfectly at home in your apartment.

When you get downstairs, sure enough, he’s stretched out on your couch, long legs and socked feet dangling over the arm, his battered canvas Toms on the floor, and he’s eating Cap’n Crunch out of the box. He takes off his ball cap when he sees you, tossing it on top of his shoes. “Hey. You got a new box,” he says, mid-chew.

“I know you like it. See what wonders I can work when you  _ tell _ me you’re coming over?”

This routine started a few years ago. You lived near the airport, and one drunken night, after a busy day’s Game of Thrones filming, you’d said “why don’t you stop by, if you’ve got a flight coming up?”

And he had, and he’d made himself  _ right at home. _ So much so that after the first few times, you’d given him a key. And he paid you back. Sometimes, you’d come home after a gruelling catering shift to find the house tidy and sparkling. Or he’d do an entire week’s grocery run for you.

You patted Pedro’s thigh and he pulled his legs up so you could sit on the sofa, then stretched out over your lap. 

“Good flight?” you asked idly, checking your message to curtail the urge to touch his face, feel his habitual scruff under your fingers.

“Not bad, watched a film.” He rubbed a hand over his face. 

“And didn’t wear your glasses?”

Pedro winced. “That obvious?”

“Put them on, idiot.”

He does, and they’re the plastic-look ones that he hates, because Edgar is always chewing up his favourite ones, but you like them on him. Make him look like a sexy professor. You’ve never told him that. You should.

“I look old. God, I feel old.”

You glanced over, putting your phone down. Maybe it’s time to tell him that you miss the smell of him when he’s gone, that heady combo of warm cinnamon, his cypress body wash, and fresh, plain soap. That you miss his cursing in Spanish when he loses to you on the Xbox. That you miss the space he takes up.

“You’re not old.” You punched his arm. “You’re still hot.”

He eyes you through the glasses, his expression Tovar-suspicious. “Yeah, we’re best friends, you gotta say that shit.” He eats more Cap’n Crunch. 

For a second you thought about how you’d played back recordings he’d sent you of his dumbass self doing stupid things while you two were apart, when you’d tried to sleep over this past week. And you thought: fuck it.

You took the box out of his hands. “Pedro.”

He blinked. “Hey-”

“I don’t  _ gotta say that shit. _ ” You pushed his legs off yours, then leaned-crawled into his lap, looking up into his big, soulful brown eyes. “You’re hot. I know so.” And you cupped his surprised face in your hands and kissed him.

For a second he froze, and you thought,  _ holy shit, I’ve fucked it up- _ and then his lips parted under yours and his tongue came out to touch your bottom lip, and then he was  _ on _ you, his big, lean body pressing yours into the sofa, mumbling stuff in Spanish as he destroyed your mouth, and you slid your hands over his back, shoulders, ass, anywhere you could reach. He tastes like cheap airport coffee and the sugary kiss of Cap’n Crunch and you never, ever wanted to go back to not kissing him again. You shove one hand into his hair, a little long, just the right length to stick out of his ball cap at all angles, and the strands are so soft and warm and  _ oh God, you just loved him. _

“Fuck me,” you breathed, in shock at the ridiculous  _ deliciousness _ of him.

“Oh,  _ querida, _ I will.” His voice had dropped half an octave and the Spanish endearment dragged over your skin, like licks of wildfire. “I will.”

*******

You made out for what seemed like hours. You touched him  _ everywhere, _ running your fingers through his soft, shaggy hair, the greys just creeping in at his temples - silver fox territory for sure.

When you started to buck up under him, needing _more,_ _now, now,_ Pedro murmured your name in that made-for-sex voice, deep and husky-edged. “Listen…. I’m not…. I’m not twenty-five anymore.”

Your heart clenched at the hint of trepidation in those soulful brown eyes. You cupped his face, sliding off his glasses and folding them on the arm of the sofa. “I know, and neither am I - and I  _ love _ where you are now.”

He leaned in for another kiss, and you felt him pour his soul into it, and your stomach bottomed out as you realised you loved him. Of course you did. Best friends was a kind of love already, it had been growing into romantic love one leaf, one centimetre at a time, with every touch and text and whatsapp video call and postcard and hug. Every time you thought about him, every time you missed him, the love was nurtured, grew another inch into your already full heart.

“But,” you added.

His brow winged up. “But…?”

“I love where you are now, but I’d  _ prefer  _ you in my bed.”

His eyebrows shot into his hairline for a second, and then he swept you into his arms.

“Um,” you began. “I mean, your back-”

“Would you just let me have this, just once,” he groused, carrying you like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. He reached the foot of the stairs, and sighed. “Okay. Fuck, I can’t.”

He set you down on the bottom step, making you the same height, and you pulled him in for a kiss. “If you think I want the athletic sex your twenty-five year old self would’ve given me, think again. I didn’t even know you then.”

Pedro sighed into your mouth as you kissed him again, sweetly, the gesture full of promise and heat. “I want to make it good for you.”

“And you will, by being you. We good?” you asked, sliding your hand down his body and cupping him through his jeans. “This feels like we’re still good.”

“We’re still good,” he breathed, and you grabbed his hand, tugging him up the stairs.

On level ground again, you pushed him against the wall by your bedroom. “Let me show you how much I  _ love _ that you’re not twenty-five anymore.”

He started to speak, but you cut him off by pulling his favourite Fleetwood Mac t-shirt over his head. “I’ve always wanted to see this on my bedroom floor.”

His eyes were blown with lust when you checked back, and he watched you hungrily as you knelt before him, unsnapping his jeans and tugging them down to mid-thigh. You gazed up at him and he pushed a hand through his hair. “Christ.”

You  _ loved _ him like this, undone and totally yours and at your mercy, completely. You braced your hands on his thighs and, maintaining eye contact, tugged his boxers down, exposing him to you.  _ Fuck, _ you’d dreamed of him like this, yours to devour and destroy however you wanted. You’d just never allowed yourself to think about it during daylight hours - when the sun was up you were his friend, had never ever crossed that line.

Now the line in the sand had been scrubbed out and if you had your way, you’d never draw it again.

A litany of curses dropped from his lips, some Spanish, some English, when you took him into your mouth and proceeded to take your sweet time learning the texture and flavour of him, using your hands to stroke, tease and pet. He was a wreck by the time you took a break, his hair curling damply, his breathing coming in pants, his eyes closed.

“More?” You asked.

“Yes. No.  _ Fuck _ . Not like this,” he bit off, and pushed his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off with his socks. He yanked you up and pressed your body into his, hands sliding into your hair as he kissed you fervently. You licked into his mouth and you half-walked, half-stumbled to your bedroom, where Pedro laid you down on the covers and undressed you, painfully slowly, taking his time to explore every new area he revealed. His moustache and facial scruff tickled pleasantly wherever he kissed and licked, and you arched up, giving him better access. 

As he slid on top of you, you took control and rolled him on to his back. “You know, there is  _ one _ thing.”

He gazed up at you with those bottomless chocolate eyes. “Name it,  _ querida. _ ” His fire was back, his smile a bit rakish, and your heart soared to know he  _ finally _ believed you wanted him, here, exactly as he was and not a day younger.

“Would you…” You traced his moustache with a finger, the hair bristly but not rough. “I’d like to feel this… where you’ll be inside me.”

His eyes went hot, and he nodded once, slowly. “Make yourself comfortable,” he drawled, and oh  _ God, _ just that line made you impossibly wetter. He helped you, hands resting on your hips as you settled over his face, and then you met his gaze and all the anxiety in you just fell away. This was your  _ best  _ friend. You’d seen each other heartbroken. You’d seen each other in love and in lust. You’d held each other through hangovers, you’d made Spotify playlists for each other to prep for gruelling weeks of filming (him) and hours of cooking and serving (you). There was no one who knew you, as you were now, better.

And then he licked up into you, and you let yourself go, and  _ oh boy, _ his facial hair really did feel as good there as you’d let yourself imagine, late at night when you went to bed alone. You let your eyes drift closed as he flicked his tongue in  _ just _ the right way, and for a second, you thought about the other women he’d tasted, the orgasms he’d given them-

“Hey.” Pedro snapped his fingers and you blinked. “Don’t do that.” He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips soft and warm and wet. “I know overthinking is our joint Olympic fucking sport, but not with this. I’ve got you,  _ hermosa. _ ”

And it’s as easy as that, and you let go. You let yourself drown in the pleasure he gives you, and you let yourself enjoy it and not think about the past lovers either of you have had. There’s only now. There’s only now when he gathers you in his lap and slides inside you, and you rock against each other, learning the sound of one another’s moans. Bringing each other on the slow ascent to orgasm, hearts pounding and muscles fluttering and then you’re  _ there _ again, and he’s right there with you.

You pressed your lips to Pedro’s neck as he climaxed with you, another litany of curses reaching your ears, roughly whispered in that husky-edge voice you adored. And these moments were just yours, you realised, and you could keep them bright by holding them close, shielding them like you might a polaroid picture. 

Afterwards, you lay together, and he cuddled you close, chuckling.

You pinched his arm. “What’s so funny?”

“I should lay on the couch eating Cap’n Crunch out of the box more often. Never knew that’d be your tipping point.”

You snorted. “You’re  _ so _ gross. And you smell of fake sugar.”

“ _ You’re _ so gross.  _ You  _ let me eat it out of the box.”

And just like that, everything changed, but everything somehow remained the same. And it was perfect. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
